Technicolor Dreams
by InfinityStar
Summary: Only normal people dream in color.


**A/N: Just a quick oneshot that came to me one night at work. Set any time before Blind Spot.**

* * *

Another Saturday night at home alone. Alex Eames got out of the bathtub and toweled herself off. It was a cool night, so she dressed in flannel pajamas since she decided to sleep with the window open. Joe had always slept with at least one window open. It was healthier, he'd said, letting fresh air into the house. They'd spent their entire marriage opening and closing windows, which led to a great deal of laughing and loving.

She finished buttoning her top and walked to the bedroom window, opening it a few inches. Maybe it was a way for her to keep connected to Joe. She sat on the bed and pulled his pillow into her arms, something she did most nights. Slowly, she laid on her side and watched the curtains billow in the breeze that blew through the window. _Oh, Joe,_ she thought as her eyes welled with tears and her throat choked up. _Why did you have to go?

* * *

_The phone rang, startling her from dreams of her lost husband. She fumbled over the nightstand until she found the phone, lifting it from its cradle. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was hesitant and out-of-breath. "E-Eames..."

She sat up, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. "Bobby? What's wrong?"

"Are-Are you okay?"

She focused on the alarm clock. 3:50. _Hell_. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Time?" He was beginning to calm down, but he was still disjointed. "I...Uhm, oh...I-I'm sorry. I...I woke you."

"What's wrong, Bobby?"

"I didn't...I didn't mean to...I'm sorry, Eames. Go back to sleep. I'll see you Monday."

"Bobby..." She was talking to dead air and then a dial tone. He'd hung up. She stared at the phone for a minute, until it started beeping in protest, reminding her to hang it up. Did he really expect her to be able to go back to sleep after a call like that?

She laid back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling for awhile before worry got the better of her. She picked up the phone and dialed her partner's number. No answer. She then dialed his cell phone. Right to voicemail. _Dammit, Goren. _

Aggravated, she got dressed and locked up her house. Sliding into her car, she pulled out of the driveway and headed for Brooklyn.

* * *

Goren stretched out on the couch, his arm folded beneath his head. His other hand held a glass, three-quarters filled with scotch, propped on his chest. He studied the familiar contours of the ceiling above him. He'd spent many sleepless nights right here, studying the ceiling while sleep eluded him.

His mind began to wander, as it inevitably did, to the details of the current case he and Eames were working. Evidence swirled through his head along with images of the scene and the autopsy details they'd received from Rodgers that afternoon. He was beginning to slip into the head of the perp, but he wasn't quite there yet. He began to relax, seeking connections his conscious mind seemed unable to make. A knock at the door jerked him back to reality. He looked at the time. 5:27. Who could possibly be knocking at his door at such an early hour?

Setting his glass on the table, he rolled off the couch and went to the door, not knowing who to expect when he pulled it open. Stunned, he stared in silence at his partner, who stood in the doorway. "Eames? Wh-What are you doing here?"

She arched an eyebrow. "You have to ask that after the call I got from you?"

He looked guilty. "I...I, I'm sorry."

"Can I come in?"

"Oh, uh, yes, yes. Come in." He closed the door once she was inside and repeated, "I'm sorry, Eames."

"Do you want to explain?"

He looked at the floor as she sat on the couch. "Not really."

"Don't you think I deserve an explanation?"

He shifted uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck. "I...yeah...you do. I..." He was embarrassed. "I had a bad dream," he confessed. "I-I was...I was only...half-awake. It was a reflex. I had to...to make sure that you were all right. It was...important, right then, that I knew that you were okay."

"What was your dream about?"

His agitation increased. "I-I don't remember. I just...All I know is that I had to make sure you were all right. I didn't look at the time. I...I'm sorry I woke you, Eames. You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"Yes, I did. You didn't answer the phone and your cell went to voicemail."

He looked around. "Oh...I, I forgot to plug it in."

She watched him pace, then she looked around the room. She looked at the magazines on the table, noting the mostly full glass of whiskey beside a bottle that was just over half full. "Do you want me to go?" she asked.

He looked at the time, then shook his head. "No. You can stay." He remained restless. "Can I get you...coffee? Breakfast? I have eggs, toast, uh, ham, I think. Cereal."

"Just coffee would be good," she said.

He seemed relieved as he went into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee and handed it to her. She patted the couch beside her. "Sit down."

He hesitated. "Come on, Bobby," she encouraged, her tone gentle. "Sit with me."

He sat down near her, on the edge of the couch, bouncing his leg restlessly. She picked up his glass and held it out to him. "Relax."

Taking the glass from her, he held it between his hands and stared at it. He took a drink as she sipped her coffee. "Do you feel better?" she asked.

He continued to stare at the glass in his hands. "Better?"

"Now that you know I'm okay?"

"Oh, uh, y-yes, of course I do. But I am sorry that I woke you. I should have waited until a decent hour to call you. That would have been...the polite thing to do."

She smiled warmly and reached out to lay her hand on his arm. "Polite, maybe, but manners don't enter into the equation when you're worried about someone you care about." She slid closer to him. "You were worried about me and you cared enough to call and make sure I was all right. How can I be mad at you for that?"

He looked at her, surprised. "You're not mad?"

"No."

It was amazing how that one word deflated the tension from his body. He remained perched on the edge of his seat, cradling the glass in his hands.

She watched him for a few minutes before she asked, "You're sure you don't remember your dream?"

He nodded, too quickly. Her hand moved, caressing his arm. He closed his eyes momentarily before taking another drink. "You-You were, uh, gone. I couldn't find you. Someone was in the way, between us, keeping me from getting to you. You were hurt, and I couldn't help you. That's all I remember."

She slid a little closer, keeping physical contact with him because she sensed he needed it. He looked drawn, tired. It was obvious to her that he hadn't been sleeping well. Perhaps that was why the half-empty—or should she be an optimist and consider it half-full—bottle was on the table. "How long have you been having this dream?"

He looked at her again in surprise. There was no way she could know it was a recurring dream. "I, uh, I don't...How did you know?"

"A lucky guess?"

He looked away, shaking his head. He wasn't buying that. "I never said anything."

"I know. But I recognize that haunted look in your eyes. You know, you don't have anything to worry about. I'm not going anywhere."

"You didn't leave of your own accord."

"I can take care of myself, Bobby. I've been doing it for a long time. You can stop worrying about me."

Downing another swallow of scotch, he turned his head to look at her again, this time allowing himself a lingering gaze. "That will never happen," he said definitively.

On impulse, much like the one that had brought her to his door, she reached out, because she knew he never would. Her fingers brushed over his rough cheek. She smiled at the look of confusion that crossed his face and she closed the final distance between them on the couch.

He didn't move, uncertain which emotion kept him rooted to the spot. Her leg came to rest against his and the warmth that radiated from that contact streamed straight to his spine and into his groin. He swallowed hard, still looking at her, still not sure what was happening, still unable to move, afraid to respond.

Her fingers stroked his cheek then moved over his temple—could she feel the pounding of his heart through the thin covering of skin there? Cutting to the left, she brought her fingertips into contact with his ear and he closed his eyes. Bright lights flashed behind his eyelids as her fingers circled his ear. The warm electricity of her touch continued to fire his body's response to the physical contact.

She moved, just a little, but it was enough to trigger a magnetic force between them. Eyes still closed, he leaned toward her as she moved in closer to him. They met halfway, mouth against mouth, and her fingers slid into his hair.

Fumbling, he slid his glass onto the table as he turned toward her, encircling her with strong arms. Somehow, he retained enough control to allow her to lead in this dance, and he was the one who was forced backwards into the cushions.

Buttons and zippers presented no obstacle and the clothing that formed a barrier between them slid away. Skin against skin generated incredible heat, and his world imploded.

* * *

She wore one of his t-shirts, but nothing else. Somehow the sweatpants he'd been wearing earlier had found their way back onto his body. He couldn't remember. She sat comfortably in the corner of the couch closest to the wall as he reclined with his head in her lap. The same fingers that had ignited him earlier now soothed him as they combed through his hair and stroked his forehead.

Half-asleep, he quietly asked, "Eames, when you dream...do you dream in color?"

His question was unexpected. "Do I...what?"

"Color. Do you dream in color?"

He came up with the most random things at the oddest times. "I don't know. I guess I've never really noticed."

"I've always believed that normal people dream in color...because I don't. My dreams are black and white. No color, no shades of gray, just black and white. That's my world, Eames. It's dichotomous." He waved his hand. "It's black or white. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Alive or dead."

She wasn't sure what he was getting at. "Maybe I do dream in black and white."

He smiled a sweet, lopsided smile. "No. No, you're normal. You have to dream in color."

"Why? Who decides what normal is?"

He gave that some thought. "Look at me," he said finally. "Then think about the opposite of me. That's normal."

"You never give yourself enough credit."

He looked at his hands, lifting the right one up in front of his face. "Give." He raised his left hand. "Take." He moved his right hand. "Open." He made a fist. "Closed. Do. Don't. There are only ever two choices." He shifted his sleepy gaze from his hands to look up at her. "Love. Hate. Live. Die."

"Is that how you view the world?"

"That's how the world is."

"So there is no in between?"

He shook his head. "Not that I have ever found."

"Maybe you don't look hard enough. What are you afraid you might find?"

"Color. Color would upset the balance. If I can see black and white, then I can figure out right and wrong. If I add color to the scheme, then that might tip the scales."

"Have you ever thought that maybe it would bring the scales into balance?"

His brow furrowed as he considered that. "Balance...how can color bring about balance?"

She leaned over and brushed her lips across his. "You never know if you don't try. If you've always seen the world in black and white, and it's always been out of balance for you, then what harm can it do to change the scheme?"

"Suppose the change makes everything worse?"

He didn't do well with change; she knew that. But to remain stagnant and unyielding would cause the greater harm as far as she was concerned. "Why not give it a try?"

He watched her from under heavy lids. "Suppose I get lost and can't find my way back?"

She leaned down again and gave him a tender kiss. She whispered a promise against his mouth, "I'll be your lifeline."

His lifeline. She was that, and so much more. He nodded as she withdrew, but her fingers continued to soothe him. His tension long gone, he rested his head against her abdomen and softly sighed. Surrendering his fear and anxiety to her, he finally let his eyes close of their own accord, and he slept.

As his sleep deepened, he fell into his dream world. The shadows drifted away, and for the first time, he dreamed in color.


End file.
